


Tiny burnmarks

by queenofchildren



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M, In-Canon, Jealousy, pining (sort of), pre-wedding, unwanted realisations of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-14 22:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: In which Benvolio and Rosaline are jealous, and peeved about it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just two drabbles based on tumblr prompts for Benvolio and Rosaline being jealous. Rosaline's part will follow soon, but won't be directly connected to this one.  
> Also, let's assume that Count Paris simply popped up from the presumed dead and asked for Livia's hand.

Benvolio had never been inclined to jealousy. There was no point in it after all, when his romances were designed to be fleeting and superficial, based on lust, infatuation, or money; and all parties involved knew that the next adventure was right around the corner. His was a love for the moment, based on two people enjoying each other – nothing more, nothing less.

Of course, the love he was _supposed_ to be sharing with his betrothed was altogether different, in ways that might well invite jealousy. But such a feeling had not surfaced yet, not even when he had watched her passionately kiss another man, watched her tears and pain at being rejected by that same man. Whatever connection she had shared with the Prince, it mattered to Benvolio only so far as it might provide a way out of the shackles of this unwanted engagement.

But the Prince had held firm, and Benvolio soon found himself very publicly betrothed to a woman who had no interest in his affection, and in whose attention he had no interest either.

Or so he thought.

Until the day he was invited to another feast at the palace, and found that the usual company of Verona's rich and powerful had been widened to allow in a newcomer, and one whom Lord Capulet seemed to know well – was, in fact, almost proprietary of.

The unfamiliar guest, a reasonably handsome man about his own age, in a splendid doublet of black and silver, was introduced as a Count Paris of Mantua. Seated next to Rosaline, the man was barely left out of old Capulet's sight. The message was clear: This was an important man, and he was affiliated with the Capulet family.

Benvolio could not have cared less about the man's affiliation. But there was something else that drew his interest over the course of the feast, and heightened and deepened it and turned it into something else, biting and burning and altogether strange to him.

For seated across from Rosaline, next to his uncle, he could not help but watch as the two of them conversed all through dinner, with nary a look to spare anyone else. Rosaline was entirely focused on the man to her left, and since he suspected her to be hard to impress by wealth, titles or splendid doublets, he had to assume her attention was captivated by something else – something which he himself, quite clearly, had never managed to offer.

Conversation flowed lively and easily between the two, while Benvolio himself could barely get more than a few civil sentences out of his betrothed, though not for lack of trying. And ever so often, she graced the stranger with a smile, bright and open, eyes dancing merrily, and Benvolio realised with a sudden inexplicable stab of irritation that she had never smiled at _him_ like this.

Surely, people who would share the rest of their lives should find occasion to smile at each other once in a while, no matter how solemn the circumstances of their betrothal? But Rosaline had never found it necessary to gift him her smile, though now she gave it freely enough to another man. She would give her hand to be bound to his in symbolic union, would give up her name to take his – but she would not _smile_ for him. And in this moment, vexingly, nothing else seemed more important.

Benvolio sat absolutely dumbstruck, staring at the pair across from him and feeling as if he was turning to stone on the outside, though acid seemed to be burning through his guts. Then realisation struck: This, then, was jealousy, that feral thing which inspired poets and musicians to bitter laments, drove men to lethal duels or equally lethal madness.

He found it immensely irritating.

After all, who was _she_ to rule over his emotions in this manner? Was it not enough that she'd get to rule over his house and personal affairs some day soon? Now, apparently, Rosaline Capulet had got his heart in the bargain as well, and not given so much in return as a single honest smile.

For several stunned moments, Bonvolio sulked over his smoked ham. He felt treated unfairly, cheated out of a chance he had, for some reason, assumed he had. But then, there perhaps lay his mistake: She had never looked at him, or anyone bearing his family name, with anything other than contempt, and no attempt to impress her had succeeded. And here some foreign Count came prancing in and simply _landed_ in her good graces, without the slightest bit of effort.

Luckily for the ham he was currently mauling with his fork and carving knife, Benvolio's musings were interrupted by a speech: Practically glowing with smug pride, Lord Capulet announced that the foreign Count had asked for his niece Livia's hand in marriage, and had received permission to woo her.

Benvolio swallowed an overlarge piece of ham in surprise, then coughed it up again with an ungainly snort as the words sunk in.

Betrothed to the _younger_ Capulet! The Count was set to become Rosaline's brother-in-law, and she no doubt expected him to be a good husband to her beloved sister, and was accordingly pleased. This then was the reason for the happy glow he had seen on her face, instead of an infatuation with the man, or satisfaction at his flattering attentions.

The clarification brought such relief that he felt a somewhat hysterical laugh start somewhere deep inside him, though he controlled himself just in time to bite it down and raise his glass politely in a toast. 

But even as he did so, Benvolio realised something else: The man he had mistaken for a rival had not even attempted to court Rosaline, and had still been more successful at winning her affections than he himself ever had.

But then, with some intellectual effort, he came to the conclusion that perhaps that was exactly how Count Paris had succeeded in drawing that elusive smile: He had not wooed or flattered in the first place; had not attempted to force that smile as a sign of his victory. He had simply, in some manner, made Rosaline happy. That had been enough.

And perhaps it would be enough for him to do the same and, in time, to earn the same reward.

Benvolio groaned at the thought. No doubt the endeavour would entail a hefty amount of work and, judging by Rosaline's stony expression when she returned his toasting gesture, lead to a number of setbacks before he suceeded.

But there was no way around it; for anything was better than this wretched jeaousy business.

Benvolio would succeed at becoming a man Rosaline Capulet smiled at, no matter the cost to his pride.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where Rosaline gets jealous, sort of. It ended up very differently in tone and themes and length from the Benvolio part, so I'm not even sure if I should publish the two pieces together. But here it is. It's super angsty because poor Rosaline is just still very hurt and determined to stay angry at the world and not to accept anything about the marriage or Benvolio, even the things that could be good.

There was no way around it, Rosaline was getting married to a Montague.

For all that he had wavered before, now Escalus was determined to see the city's two houses united, the engagement at the heart of their new union confirmed before Verona, and celebrated with a feast that very same evening. Not even an explosion and subsequent outbreak of chaos and rioting had sufficed to make him cancel, or at least postpone, the festivities. And so, once she had cleaned the dirt and ash off her face and changed into a new and even more resplendent dress, Rosaline headed to the palace with her uncle and sister, hair still slightly singed in places and the occasional tremor running down her spine as she remembered the shock of the great explosion, the roar of fire and chaos that followed.

Benvolio had been quick to react in the moment, pulling her down and out of range of the jagged pieces of wood flying all around them, and had then promptly dragged her away from the inferno devouring the piazza and towards the safety of the nearby Capulet home. Still thinking her sister in danger, Rosaline had struggled the entire way there, but her newly-confirmed betrothed had been relentless. Her sister, he argued, had been standing much farther from the source of the explosion than they had, conveniently near an exiting street and protected by her uncle and a dozen Capulet men. If the two of them had made it out, so had she.

He turned out to be right: Livia was already home when they arrived, welcoming them with a relieved sob and effusions of gratitude towards the Montague that Rosaline was sure had made his already big head swell even more. Still, she supposed, he _had_ done her a service getting her to safety, staying calm where she had been about to lose her head, so it was perhaps for the best that her sister was so animatedly showing gratitude where she found herself unable to do the same.

The impression Benvolio had made on her today had clashed quite terribly with the one she'd had of him before, careless and pleasure-driven and with no regard to anyone but himself. It had, perhaps, been a somewhat harsh judgment, and if not completely wrong, then at the very least incomplete. Twice now he had delivered her from mortal peril, and while she had suspected some ulterior motive the first time, she knew now that his words had been true back then: He had helped her because she needed his help. And today, he had kept her safe because she had been in danger, simple as that.

But just when she'd almost decided to give her betrothed the benefit of the doubt, and allow for the thought that perhaps he was a better man than her prejudices and his own comportment suggested, she was reminded of some of the other things that had shaped her opinion of him, and made for his less-than-stellar reputation in town.

Rosaline had, in some unspoken part of her mind, known that her betrothed was, as the saying went, a man of some worldly experience. She had not, however, expected to be confronted with evidence of that same worldly experience on the very evening of her betrothal dinner.

And yet, there was no doubt about it: The woman sitting across from them at the banquet table, one rich and beautiful widow by the name of Contarini, had been acquainted with the Montague heir before, and remembered the acquaintance fondly, if her heated glances and languid smiles at him across the table were anything to go by.

Politeness dictated that Lady Contarini's early widowhood was described as sad and unfortunate when it came up in conversation, but Rosaline suspected that the lady considered it neither, and was indeed enjoying herself a great deal. Rosaline would not have blamed her for it – certainly her state of widowhood provided financial security without the inconvenience of having to answer to a husband for it. She herself would find it almost as attractive a path in life as the one she had been determined to embark upon before everything, if it did not depend on _being widowed_ first, and come with the risk of a robust and long-lived husband.

Still, for all that she had no prejudices against the woman, Rosaline felt unease as she tried not to watch her beyond the occasional polite glance. She was well aware that Lady Contarini, while perfectly within the bounds of polite behaviour, let her eyes stray often and merrily to the man sitting across from her, and with a glint in them that even a relative innocent such as herself knew to interpret as an invitation.

Rosaline dared not try and find out what lingered in Benvolio's eyes when he glanced back, and the fact that she wanted to in the first place vexed her beyond measure.

She was only looking out for her own reputation, she told herself, for her sister's sake if not for her own. After all, there was no telling what it would do to Livia's prospects if word got about that her brother-in-law was a known and shameless philanderer. Benvolio could do what he wished on his own discretion, but, Rosaline resolved at the nearest occasion, she'd remind him not to besmirch her name in the process.

But before she had the time to do so, her betrothed apparently managed to get plenty of besmirching done, and at their own feast no less. For as soon as dinner was eaten, a series of speeches made and all the guests' good wishes received, Benvolio simply _disappeared._ Rosaline did not notice immediately, caught up in conversation with Isabella and one of her ladies-in-waiting, but when she did, eventually, her earlier irritation flared up again.

Had he no care for how this must look? Would she have to shoulder the burden of keeping up this farce alone? She had no intention to do so. If Benvolio could sneak off to get a little respite from their social responsibilites, then so could she.

Huffing and stomping perhaps a little too much for a proper lady, Rosaline snuck out of the throne room and down the corridor. Balconies lined the walls of the palace on this side, and further along, the doors to one of them had been opened to let in some air. Just the place for some peace and quiet, Rosaline decided, and slipped out unseen. Leaning against the wall, she let her head thud back and breathed in and out deeply.

But even out here in the darkness, it seemed she would get no respite: Voices drifted to her ear, a man's and a woman's, and after a moment of confusion, she pieced together that they must be coming from the next balcony over, hidden from view by the masterful stone ornaments running along the walls of the palace.

And with a creeping sense of dread, she then proceeded to figure out who it was she had stumbled upon: Her own betrothed, and, judging by the rich, sensual voice of his female companion, the very same lady who had spent dinner devouring him with her eyes as if he had been one of the delicacies on the table before them.

“Benvolio Montague, engaged to be married," purred the lady just then. "A happy day for you, though a black one for the young ladies of Verona.“

Rosaline could not see Lady Contarini, but she imagined she'd be mustering Benvolio with those languid eyes this very moment, a seductive smile playing across full lips stained with rich red wine.

“You've certainly managed to pick the bride most unwelcome to your uncle. You always did like to be contrary.“

The fondness in the widow's tone, the emphasis on that little word 'always' suggested what they were no doubt intended to suggest: Here were two people who had known each other for a long time, and intimately.

“Ah, but you are mistaken there,“ came Benvolio's reply. “My uncle is overjoyed at the union. Montagues and Capulets, overcoming their differences at last.“

Unlike his uncle, Benvolio sounded anything but overjoyed. And while she knew this, and felt the same about the whole affair, Rosaline worried if it was perhaps unwise to let his feelings on the matter show so cleary.

She had barely finished the thought when her fear was proven correct.

“Two families united,“ came the widow's melodious voice, then a soft gasp of realisation that made Rosaline uneasy. “And you the union's sacrificial lamb.“

Rosaline stifled a curse. The shrewd widow had figured it out – of course she had. She could only hope Benvolio would refute her interpretation, soundly and convincingly. Already there was gossip that the marriage was some ploy to make their houses grander still. The last thing they needed was to pour oil on that fire.

But to Rosaline's horror, Benvolio did not refute anything.

“Me and her both.“

“Perhaps.“ If Lady Contarini was happy to have such insight into the marriage that had all of Verona talking, she did not let on. Her voice remained an unimpressed drawl. “But the Capulet girl has much to gain from it. I doubt she'll be losing sleep over the decision.“

Anger surged through Rosaline, sharp and hot. How dare that woman assume she knew her motives? That, just because fate had demoted her to a lower station than she had been born to, she would jump at the first chance to elevate herself again, by any means necessary?

But her anger was quickly surpassed by another, much more terrible train of thought: Benvolio knew just how much Rosaline resented the thought of marrying him, and why. And here was a woman ready to sympathise with him, to comfort him with loving arms and easy understanding. What if he let the older woman's attention tempt him into spilling her and Escalus' secret, the one that could undo all of Verona?

She held her breath through the beginning of his reply – but the heated tone of it surprised her into breathing soon enough.

“She's still a human being. A person whose designs for their own life were cast aside, just like that, for some bigger scheme.“

In her hiding-place, Rosaline sucked in a sharp breath. Was Benvolio... defending her?

It had not occurred to her that he might sympathise with her and, she realised shamefully, it had likewise not occurred to her to sympathise with him, though he was in the same wretched situation she was.

“In any case, my uncle would have procured a wealthy and well-connected girl for me to marry soon enough. I guess it doesn't make much of a difference.“

Silence save for the rustle of skirts, and then a soft female sigh.

“No, I guess not.“ A pause, heavy with thoughts. “You know, I may have cursed your name once or twice, but I never would have wished this on you. I thought you'd marry some starry-eyed young girl, one so terribly in love with you she'd forget her own name over it. And I'm sure you would have made her deliriously happy.“

He laughed, short and bitter.

“Trust, me, no one is going to be forgetting anyone's name in this union.“

“Poor little lamb,“ the widow cooed softly. “All that pride, bruised because your fiery bride won't spare you the time of day.“ A mischievous tone snuck into her voice. “I could kiss it better for you, you know.“

The innuendo was clear enough, and when it was followed by silence, Rosaline tried not to imagine what must be going on, tried not to listen for the rustle of skirts being pushed aside and breeches untied, for the quiet whispers and stifled moans she imagined would soon ensue. She had no doubt the widow possessed enough skill to make a man forget about his troubles no matter how pressing, and was equally sure Benvolio would not need much convincing to let her do so for him. After all, he had no such pleasures to expect from their marriage, for even if Rosaline was willing to give them – which she was most decidedly not – she was so inexperienced in these things, she doubted her efforts could compare to the older woman's.

Rosaline shook her head, startled and irritated as to the direction her thoughts were taking. Instead of standing here spying on her faithless betrothed's little tryst, she ought to do something, put a stop to this lewd behaviour before someone else could stumble across them. Should rumors spread of Benvolio's infidelity, there was no telling what it would to to Escalus' plan, to the fragile peace established by the union of their two houses. And wasn't peace, after all, the whole point of this lunacy?

Luckily and unexpectedly, Rosaline was spared the humiliation of making herself known and interrupt the would-be-lovers by Benvolio's response.

“A tempting offer, and yet I have to decline."

The rustling sounds stilled, perhaps because the lady on the other balcony was as stunned as Rosaline was.

"I swore to love and honour another woman. I doubt I'll ever be welcome to _love_ , but I will not break my promise of the “honouring“-part on our very first night as a betrothed couple. It is best I bid you goodnight, my Lady.“

With that, Benvolio's heavy footsteps retreated back inside the castle, a hasty retreat if ever she'd witnessed one.

Lady Contarini did not follow immediately, no doubt versed enough in sneaking about to know to let some time pass before emerging from her hiding place, and Rosaline too stayed in place, unwilling to risk running into either Benvolio or the widow when she emerged.

And that was when she heard it: A soft little laugh, followed by an astonished murmur:

“Very interesting.“

Then a swish of skirts told her Lady Contarini had retreated inside, and only Rosaline remained, letting the night air cool her heated cheeks, and involuntarily finding herself agreeing with the lady, even though she should perhaps be worried instead.

But the encounter had provided much food for thought, and Rosaline found her mind wholly occupied in trying to muddle through it.

For one thing, there was the fact that Lady Contarini seemed to genuinely care for her young lover, tumultuous as their relationship might have been. This had surprised Rosaline, for on the rare occasions she had given thought to the her betrothed's reputation, and the women he had earned it with, Rosaline had always assumed he'd treated them callously, using them for his own pleasure and casting them aside when he lost interest. Lady Contarini had not sounded as if that had been the case for her, and nor had she doubted Benvolio's claim to want to honour his wife.

What was more, Benvolio's former lover seemed to assume him capable of making a woman happy, and fully expected him to do so for his future wife. What would that entail, Rosaline wondered? Plenty of jesting, probably, which she assumed some ladies would indeed find diverting. Protection from danger, that she could attest to herself, and she had to admit there was some attraction in the prospect of someone else looking out for one's well-being. And thinking back all the way to the fateful night that had set all this in motion, the night of Juliet and Romeo's secret nuptials, Rosaline thought she remembered a certain softness in Benvolio's eyes as he watched the two being wed, a trace of longing that perhaps spoke of his wish to be married like this too, bathed in love and candle light. Perhaps the lady was right - perhaps her betrothed really did have it in him to make a woman happy, if, as he had put it, he was welcome to do so. 

And suddenly, like the flash of a shooting star, the thought crossed her mind: What if she let him? After all, if her betrothed was not the selfish, careless cad she had assumed him to be, perhaps in time she might come to respect him, and to let herself care for him and be cared for in return...

A peal of laughter from inside the palace tore her out of her musings, and the thought burned out as quickly as any falling star must, no matter how pretty it appeared in the black night sky.

The harsh truth was that there would be no happiness for her in this marriage. Allowing herself any familiarity, any care for her unwanted husband would mean submitting to the union she had been forced into, and _that_ Rosaline could not do. It was perhaps unjust towards the husband in question, who had had just as little to say about their betrothal as she had, but he would simply have to find someone else to provide the tender affection she could not give – after all, he knew plenty of women to ask to fulfill those needs.

Drawing another deep breath, Rosaline saw to it that her spine was straight, her head held high, and her heart hardened once more, before she went back inside. Painting a smile back onto her face, she took up her place next to a wholly innocent-looking Benvolio to mingle once more with their assembled guests, internally reminding herself that this was what she must learn to bear in the future: To be among a crowd of people, and still terribly alone.

Had she but looked to her left just once, she would have met a set of warm, inquiring eyes that would have told her that she was wrong: She need not be alone in this.

But Rosaline looked straight ahead.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that on the show there's only mention of prostitutes when it comes to Benvolio's sex life, but I find it plausible that a charming young libertine would seduce the odd young widow, and more plausible for Rosaline to come into contact with one of his noble conquests than a prostitute.  
> Fun fact: The Contarini were a powerful noble family in Venice at the time. So is Lady Contarini a Venetian spy? Who knows?


End file.
